Firewater
by Miss Savvy
Summary: Will Graham doesn't want to be like Hannibal Lecter.
1. Chapter 1

**Beer**

* * *

It was a bitter drink. With time, she had grown accustomed to it. If she was to claim she savored it, clarification would follow soon after. She hardly savored it for the flavor alone.

Beer had always been her go-to drink. It never changed. Briefly entertained thoughts of trying something new were quick to be dismissed; drowned out by the _pop_ from the cap of a glass-rimmed bottle.

Hard liquor too hard.

Wine not hard enough.

A drink dating back to the Stone Age, she had learned a long while ago that it was the oldest fermented liquor to date. The malt was timeless, not only to the world but to her.

Relentless and able to withstand the test of tragedies, misfortune, and disappointment - it had an edge to it that Alana Bloom herself felt she could align with.

Hannibal Lecter was generous. Alana thought this, at least, as she watched him fill a tall Pilsner glass to the brim. He extended it to her with the curtest of nods, a fraction of a smile subtley hidden in the lines at the corner of his eyes as she indulged herself with a sip.

She thought she saw the flicker of a smirk hidden there, assumably gauging her reaction to her own set-aside brew. She reasoned he saw to hide it for her sake, as she certainly didn't feel the need to smile. Even with the distinct taste of an excellent ale playing at her tongue.

"Do you genuinely think that Will would've killed you, if Jack hadn't have stepped in?"

The tall, slender glass was cradled between her two frail hands. His broad ones were splayed over the sides of the chair he rested in beside her; he hesitated for only a moment.

"It is difficult to say. He was not in the right frame of mind," he paused, sending his gaze to the side before adding, "- and our good Will still isn't, for that matter."

Alana wanted to shake her head. She refrained, instead remembering the startling way Will shrugged her off, refusing to speak to her when she visited him in the hospital.

Cloth covered his wounded shoulder and she inquired as to the pain. He stiffened.

He had closed his eyes to her when she pushed him, asking softly for details – asking what was wrong and what had changed. No longer opening up to her, she felt hurt.

It wasn't the Will she knew. But she strived to convince herself twelve times over on the drive home from the hospital that he wouldn't be lost to her forever.

"He'll get better."

"With time. You cannot anticipate the extent of his illness, Alana."

"Don't say that."

The edge she allies herself with is present in her unwavering voice. For a moment she considers saying _'shut up' _instead -as she did with Jack. But she takes another small sip of the beer, and remembers the level of civility she maintains with her colleuge. He is somber, and in contrast she can be hot headed. She quells her nature with a third sip.

Alana watched him sigh.

"You and I both care deeply for Will."

The woman watched him coax his bottom lip with his tongue, drawing it in with thought. Tilting her head, she couldn't repress her guilt-ridden tone.

"But we did this to him," she interjected, "We_ all _did this to him – we let him get too close."

"Close enough to kill, unfortunately."

Her eyes widened by a fraction, and she had to bite her tongue to avoid tramping over his follow-up observation.

"You feel as though you've failed him. As do I."

At his words, Alana felt as bitter as the brew.

She is strong a woman, but she cannot help but notice the splash of a teardrop that merges into the bubbling, fermented drink below her. It dissipates – is lost as quickly and silently as the warm hand that rests upon her forearm for only a brief moment. Just a sliver of comfort is offered. That's all she really needs to get by; she'd feel ashamed if his touch lingered there for too long.

"I suspect that having broken him, it is our obligation to put him back together."

She nods. Forces the corner of her mouth up into a grim smile – he takes it, and speaks in a manner that she finds thoughtful.

"… I will do all that I can to help Will Graham realize who he is."

**Brandy**

* * *

A man slams a phone down and attempts to take a moment to collect himself. But the moment doesn't last long enough.

He drinks brandy with ice - and a lot of it, too. He buys it strong and doesn't dull it with coke or any sort of sparkling soda. The ice waters it down only a bit as it melts, but not enough to affect the flavor.

He peers down at the liquid in the rock-glass he swirls in hand and doesn't look up again until a knock sounds at the door much, much later. The woman he calls enters, heels clicking across the floor with a slow, heavy pace.

"Will Graham spent too much time in the minds of killers."

"Jack – "

"You see that crime scene, Alana? You see what he did to that orderly?"

He can see her breathing heavily, restraining herself from lashing out. Her eyes divert, fall to the floor, before catching his gaze once again.

"I heard."

Jack gruffs, shakes his head.

"Well hearing isn't seeing."

Jack Crawford worked in a unit that required him to look straight into the face of something terribly ugly on a daily basis. His drink of choice was strong, because much like all of those the countless, bloodied crime scenes, he could stomach it.

That's not to say that he wasn't perturbed by the crimson splattered, white walls of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Two nurses gutted, a janitor slashed from nose to naval, and an orderly whose face had nearly been ripped clean off – the last offense a particularly gory display.

Stomachs plummeted when Katz reluctantly pointed out that bite marks marred the disfigured flesh. Traces of Will Graham's saliva were left behind to dry upon the victim.

"Jack," Alana started up, "I just don't believe Will could do it."

"He did."

She scoffed loudly at his abruptness.

"He escaped before," Jack spoke as he inhaled, then exhaled deeply at the thought of a run-off-the-road ambulance, " - I should've considered him being able to manage it again."

Jack felt enormous responsibility. But looking at the crime scene that morning also made him feel as though he had created and released a monster.

The woman didn't want to hear it.

Alana turned on her heel, showing off her back to the man situated as his chair. It was quiet, and she could hear him swallow down the rest of his drink as she opened the door to leave.

"Stop thinking about protecting Will Graham. He's the one killing - we need to focus on protecting people from _him_."

Alana snapped the door shut hard enough to rattle the ice cubes of an empty glass.

**Whisky**

* * *

When Will Graham came through his senses rushed.

There was a sting plaguing his restrained arm. His eyes fluttered and he saw the not-so-good doctor there at his side, pouring a burning solution into a deep cut that brandished his elbow. In the wake of his clouded mind, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten it.

"Hello, Will."

It hurt like hell. Will wasn't positive whether he was referring entirely to the wound or not.

He felt his pulse quicken – his throat tighten. His voice lost.

Blue eyes shifted to something else besides that of the man at his side. He was flat on his back – secured at every appendage upon a bed. The heavy jumpsuit was gone and his usual bed-slept attire adorned in place of it. He caught a decent glance at the bottle and read it with uncertainty. He grimaced, and his unconventional psychiatrist offered a light smile in response.

"Whiskey was first used by pharmacists and monks for medical purposes. The origin of the word itself roughly translates to 'water of life'. An interesting anecdote, I think."

Its usage seemed strangely both in and out of character.

"I also recall that you are quite fond of it."

Will thought about drinking. Sleepwalking. Losing time.

The young agent shivered and began to tremble, though he didn't gasp or elicit a sound at the irregular form of treatment. Not for lack of trying. He felt and battled a fleeting urge in his throat that prompted him to growl, laugh, and sob all at once.

"Remain still."

The instruction was firm. Will felt the unconscious need to comply by that alone, and so he did. Hannibal dressed the gash in no time at all. Will thought those nimble fingers pressed too hard against the wounded flesh purposefully, as if to incite a vocal response he had yet to hear from the younger man. He bit his tongue.

Will tensed when those same fingers splayed across the unscathed, bare flesh up his upper arm after Hannibal finished. He felt a bead of sweat collect upon his brow. The abrupt switch in his mind of a clinical touch turning intimate made him still – made him feel apprehensive.

Will knew Hannibal could see it. Could see how he felt and probably could hear the dry swallow of his throat, were it not drowned out by that of a heart beating frantically in its cage.

Out of the emotions he felt that came together to define his _hurt,_ Will led with anger.

"Don't touch me. You have no fucking _right_ to touch me."

Hannibal paused at the uncouth demand, emitting a dark gaze. Will felt foreign eyes sweep over him. The doctor let his hand move to lie heavy across a cotton-covered chest. It rose and fell in quick succession.

"Do you truly find my touch so crass?"

Will stiffened, and the good doctor tilted his head by a mere fraction.

"A rude thing to say, I should think. I have mended your wounds."

"Yeah…" the younger man scoffed, not bothering to steal a glance at the stitched and bandaged skin "_- __these _wounds."

Will kept his head turned away and off to the side, but he could sense the light smirk on the other man's lips even so, and at the thought of it he lashed out once more.

"You're a murderer."

"And you, Will?"

The young agent stilled.

He swallowed and his nose twitched. He had realized he couldn't be absolutely certain that he hadn't done something at some point – that he hadn't lost time and hurt someone. But in spite of that doubt, he was certain of the fact that Hannibal Lecter was the copycat; someone without a motive other than that of wanting to experience the thrill of screwing with an unstable agent. It was unsettling.

"I know what I am. I'm not like _you_."

Will delivered it with bite, wanting his words to sting. A part of him knew they wouldn't, of course. He sensed that words wouldn't sting the good doctor in the way they might normal people.

"I feel that you and I are astoundingly similar. You simply do not know it yet."

Will felt the sweep of a warm hand trace itself down his torso and back up again; fingers flicked themselves beneath thin material. A red flush stained him as a thumb and forefinger massaged minute circles upon the bare skin of his abdomen. His eyes didn't dare flick up to meet that of his captor's, but his breathing pattern quickened and hitched at the light touch. Hannibal's voice was as calm and precise as the trace of his hand.

"I wish only to calm you at the moment, my dear Will."

If truly meant to soothe, it didn't help. It just made him feel sick and bitter.

He remembered an accusation; _fear makes you rude._

"Why don't you - why don't you _kill_ me like you killed everyone else."

Hannibal was quiet; he then collected a reluctant chin in his grip and pulled a face into perfect view. He admired the way the young agent's blues danced around his features – avoiding eye contact at all costs.

"Will, I do not mean to kill you."

_Of course he didn't._

"Why not?"

"You know why."

He couldn't help but shudder – tried to ignore the touch that traced his bottom lip and outlined the curve of his jaw.

Will Graham had always been able to get into the mind of a killer. He felt he had met his match, now having a killer penetrate his own mind with just as much ease.

It stung more than whisky to a wound.

**Wine**

* * *

Hannibal Lecter was meticulous when it came to his palate for wine and he selected a variety of favorites based on their richness in color, aroma, and flavor.

Every precise aspect counted.

Hannibal felt disheartened when Will intentionally shattered a glass at dinner. It was a crime in his eyes that rivaled tearing delicate petals from a rose.

Unnecessary. Cruel. Something that couldn't be justified.

He gathered up the shards and Will watched as he did so, bent down on one knee at his side. He didn't appear to lose an ounce of dominance in such a position, and as Will briefly entertained the idea of kicking him, he soon thought better of it.

"I have allowed you to sit at my dinner table to dine with me. Your behavior is… inappropriate, Will. "

Hannibal allowed him the audacity to laugh. Mostly because it was strained and laced with hurt, not one that held the rich tone of amusement over his choice to spill the expensive liquor.

"I think pinning murders on patients probably falls under the same category of inappropriate behavior."

Hannibal sighed at the sarcastic observation.

"If I pour you another glass, I trust you not to spill it."

"Then don't bother," was all the younger of the two scoffed in reply.

He was so full of angst. So heated. And it unconsciously stirred something inside of the man propped up on only one knee.

Hannibal tilted his head, smirked with his eyes, and didn't offer a reply. He could see Will's chest constrict, but Will didn't dare move nor say a thing.

* * *

When Will was left to himself behind a locked door, he collapsed on the bed of a fussily decorated room without a window.

He traced marks left on the soft tissue of his mouth by sharp canines as well as the split inflicted on his lower lip. He tasted Hannibal on his tongue.

To his psychiatrists' aim and satisfaction, the flavor of wine lingered there as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Water**

* * *

_"You're taking his dogs? All of them?"_

_"__Yes. Is that a problem?"_

_"__What do you mean? He has seven."_

_"… __They belong to Will."_

* * *

It was late when she arrived home. Alana unlatched her screen door and stepped over the threshold only to be met with the wagging tails of a pack of dogs. They crowded her, cool snouts nuzzling her forearm and handbag. Though still upset with everything that had transpired, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a half-smile and she ran a hand lazily through the thick coat of an Aussie, closing the door behind her.

"You guys thirsty?"

Pets weren't exactly her forte; she'd spent more time around colleagues, students and children then animals in any case. Still, she didn't regret volunteering to keep them. They were sweet animals, neither vicious nor trained to attack. The dogs were _kind_ – the way that Will had taught them to be.

Their tongues lapped up the cool water that she'd taken and poured into several saucers.

Occasionally, Alana would glance over from the loveseat she'd collapsed on to catch the sight of one of them sniffing curiously at a potted plant, or another licking at a front paw. It took awhile before they stopped roaming around the space of her living room and settled themselves to sleep near the unlit hearth. The brunette felt her stomach tighten just a bit as she watched the closely-knit dogs – one was practically piled upon the other as they slept.

They were a family; but of course they weren't gathered around _her_ at the sofa. She wondered how much they missed Will… and if they felt lonely. She felt even worse when she thought about Will feeling that way.

Alana shook the thought away, turning her attention back to the journal cradled in hand before burying her nose into yet another encephalitis text.

* * *

Will Graham couldn't see the storm, but he could hear it.

The ceilings were arched and high in the third-story room so that all of the sounds seemed to echo and bounce off of one another. With his eyes closed he could hear the wind, the heavy splatter of water upon shingles, and the sound of hail driving against the roof. It wasn't a peaceful shower… it bothered him. It was actually _scary_. One of his hands subconsciously gripped and twisted at the cloth of an expensive sheet. The other soon followed suit.

Lines marred his forehead and he kept his eyes pressed shut. He hadn't slept. Instead he would lie still and occasionally remember something he preferred not to have remembered. He pushed the most recent of memories back and kept attempting to think about things that weren't terrifying. Not of storms, or of Minnesota, or of the hospital, or of Doctor Lecter -

_Doctor Lecter, and the strong fingers of broad hands roughly entwined into the mess of hair at the base of his neck._

_Doctor Lecter, and the light scrape of canines upon the flesh of his bared throat, his tongue sweeping over a delicate pulse point._

_Doctor Lecter, whispering words against his lips that he could not remember over the swirl of distorted noise that had swept over his conscious._

These were the things he did not want to think of, and the things he did not want to remember.

He didn't understand. Didn't want to, either.

Thunder would have been better received than that of the deep accent that cut through the room, disrupting his troubled thoughts.

"Will – " the voice began, and the young man startled in reaction as his captor finished his thought, "I am afraid the rain will continue on throughout the night."

Will Graham had scrambled upright, opening his eyes.

Hannibal lingered in the doorway; apparently the _click_ of the unlocked knob had been drowned out by the storm. Lecter offered to him a mere sliver of a smile and a knowing look, watching the young agent's features shift and twist through that of several different emotions – his expression a palette comprised of a variety of divine colors and sentiments.

"Is your heart still racing?"

Almost certainly, the man was referring to that _thing_ he didn't want to think about. He didn't like it. Will swallowed. He sat there for a moment before he found himself shaking his head, the motion tense.

"Ah. You are frightened of the storm, then. Or perhaps another nightmare."

"I'm fine."

Maybe he wasn't fine, but it wasn't as though he wanted to talk about it. Will didn't want his words to sound strained either, but they had surely come out like that. He bit his tongue at the realization and looked away to focus on a panel of wood flooring.

"You do not look as though you are fine," the velvet tone pointed out, and Hannibal tilted his head to adopt an almost sympathetic expression.

"I do hate to see you in distress, Will."

Will couldn't help but laugh at that, finding it ironic; the faintest trace of hysteria etched itself into his tone, "Yeah, well – forgive me if I don't believe you."

Hannibal frowned slightly before stepping into the neat little room. Will abruptly stood in response, feeling unsteady on his feet and fearing for a moment that he would stumble and fall over. He didn't, to his surprise, instead finding himself unable to move and glued to the spot as his psychiatrist slowly approached him.

"They would have allowed you to rot in there," the smooth voice spoke, soft and silken, "… subject to whatever appalling atrocities Chilton dares label suitable treatment."

Will shook his head in confusion, a weary look planted on his features.

"You think that _this _is better?"

"I think I can protect you here."

Before he knew it the swirling sound in his head had returned. Hannibal was standing right in front of him. He twitched slightly and registered a gentle hand pushing unkempt bangs back from his forehead. The touch was cool in contrast to his feverant skin.

"You have a fascinating mind, my darling boy. And to have let it waste away in such a horrid environment would have been more than a mere shame."

Feeling his pulse begin to race, Will managed to turn his head from the man's touch in a small attempt to gather control of the situation. He wanted to push him away – to _fight_ – but he couldn't. He found it difficult enough to speak his protest and it sounded more like a weak whimper as opposed to a demand.

"Get away."

"William," the accented purr tutted at him, reprimanding and controlled, "You shouldn't be rude."

Hannibal moved with Will, and the young agent could feel both hands resting heavy on his shoulders, fingers trailing down his arms in a soothing motion.

"What do you want then?"

Hannibal watched the muscles in Will's throat constrict as he swallowed; he could smell the apprehension and fear on his delicate little agent as easily as he'd detected his illness months beforehand. Everything about his Will was divine – and he wanted to contain him; to keep him; to create and change and sculpt him into an image as dark and as beautiful as his twisted, empathetic mind.

Doctor Lecter paused at that thought, drawing in his bottom lip for a fraction of second before answering. He took a hand from Will's arm and positioned it under his chin before tilting his face upwards – urging pale blue eyes to meet his dark ones.

Will didn't _connect_, but he settled his gaze on a high and defined cheekbone. Hannibal looked past this.

"I would like for you to open up to me as you have done before – reveal to me your most disconcerting thoughts, and allow me to listen and to guide you. It is nothing you haven't done before."

Will shifted under his hold and the weight of his stare. He didn't care whether or not he'd done it before. When it came right down to it, talking to Hannibal Lecter was exactly the sort of thing that landed him in this mess.

"I… I don't want to be here," he managed softly, turning his chin up and out of the light grasp.

He attempted to pull away but felt himself held still and restrained by two strong arms when he tried – his form swallowed by the larger one into what might have passed for an awkward excuse of a hug. One hand stroked his back in a comforting gesture; Hannibal nuzzled Will's shoulder and the crook of his neck for a while; breathing in his scent and listening only to the sound of the other man's unsteady breathing.

"That is your misfortune, dear one," he had whispered softly into the young empath's ear, "As I can assure you will not be leaving."

* * *

The office wasn't tasteful. Rather, it was more akin to a room stuffed full of degrees, medical journals, and encyclopedias openly put on display as if to advertise an egotistical level of conceit and false aptitude. It practically _rang_ Frederick Chilton.

"I'm just curious as to why this hospital's precautionary measures still aren't up to standard considering its most recent incident with Dr. Gideon," Alana pointed out, arms crossed.

"I assure you that our standards are more than sufficient."

The middle-aged man who answered with practiced patience was serving as stand-in to a hospitalized Chilton. He laced his fingers together over the sturdy wood desk, occasionally glancing down at the files upon it. Jack all but barked back at him from across the room.

"And you can't tell me how this all managed to happen?"

He cocked his head, appearing relatively calm,"… If you are asking me to explain why we experienced a power failure and as a result of such a failure Will Graham managed to escape and murder the night staff - then no, I cannot."

Alana cast a look of disbelief towards Jack before speaking up again, her tone taut and her expression hard.

"You're liable."

The sitting doctor scoffed, raising a brow, "For factors playing a part in this that were entirely beyond my control?"

"For failing to provide a secure and safe environment for an involuntarily admitted patient in a mental health unit," the brunette woman corrected with grit.

Alana had pushed for it –_demanded_ that Jack look into the background of the hospital staff and anyone who had access to Will. Jack lacked her perspective, but agreed nonetheless. He didn't have a problem eliminating the alternatives, even if he doubted their existence to begin with. Just as well, he knew just how responsible he was. He'd been the one to pull him out of a classroom. He could admit that.

They shared a car back to the academy; Alana's eyes followed a river on her side of the road as she stared out of the window. She admired how calm it was. She imagined it cool and tranquil.

"I think you should consider taking a break from the case," the voice at her side started, pausing when the woman turned her head sharply to stare at him before adding on, " – just for awhile."

Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, she replied, "And are you suggesting this based off of what's best for me or yourself?"

"Alana, the team can cover this," and again he tacked on for the sake of temper, " - for awhile."

"Of course they can. Just like you covered Will."

Jack sighed, shaking his head, "Just because you let your relationship with Will become romantic…"

"_What!_"

"Yes Alana, romantic!" the federal agent all but snapped back.

She fumed, eyes flickering, "It's not about me Jack. It's not about you!"

"I'm not saying it is," his tone rough as he turned the steering wheel, "I'm saying that when we find Will we're going to have a difficult time finding some evidence that _doesn't_make him look guilty as hell."

"Then I'll find it," she bit back, turning her head back to look out the window once more.

Silence was the tune for the rest of the ride to the academy. Both minds had been running rapid despite the lack of conversation. Alana nearly snapped the car door in half when she stepped out and shut it when they got into the parking lot. She gave Jack a sharp look before heading over to her own car.

"Don't you dare tell me to leave the case again. Ever."


End file.
